Delicate
by nefret24
Summary: Sara needs a life, and Peter never provided specifics; Neal needs a distraction from meditating on ghosts. It's wrong and they know it but that doesn't stop them. Neal/Sara. Please R/R!


Title: Delicate

Author: Nefret24

Category: Neal/Sara

Rating: M for language and sex.

Disclaimer: Show and characters belongs to USA and Jeff Eastin respectively. No profit being made; only salvation from plot bunnies.

Summary: Sara needs a life, Neal needs a distraction. It was doomed from the start, right?

Author's Note: Spoilers up to s2's "Unfinished Business." (I didn't care for "In the Red" so I'm pretending it didn't happen, except for the shirtless!Neal part. Matt Bomer partially naked is acceptable anytime.)

* * *

_We might kiss when we are alone_

_When nobody's watching_

_We might take it home_

_We might make out when nobody's there_

_It's not that we're scared_

It's just that it's delicate

~Damien Rice, "Delicate"

* * *

It's silly and it seems like something out of a sitcom, or more likely some over-blown old-timey western: the idea that the city isn't big enough for the both of them.

Sara finds herself realizing once more that most of the worst clichés are grown from a kernel of truth. Because ever since the Halbridge case, Neal Caffrey keeps popping up on her radar and it's slowly driving her fucking insane.

She's not sure if it's just that she knows he's out, and that her specialty and his happen to coincide, so the renaissance painting that she's currently tracking brings the blue-eyed conman fresh to mind. Perhaps he hasn't changed, and is pulling the wool over Peter's eyes, still active in all the nefarious activities he used to be.

It isn't fair that for the first time in ages she has a rapport with a man; two men, actually. One who's happily married and has always been a respected colleague, and the other who's tantalizingly available and has always been a thorn in her side. And here she is, all too aware of how few allies she has in this world these days.

She wants to call Peter, and ask him how to do this, this getting a life thing, but knows that even though he's a great guy who wouldn't mind dispensing a little advice, it's not his job to be her therapist. She hates therapists, anyway.

She finds herself scanning crowds looking for Caffrey. This is when she realizes that matters have reached critical mass, and she hates, hates, _hates_ herself for it. He's a criminal whose middle name since April 2005 has been _fucking_, Neal _fucking_ Caffrey, and just because he was sweet on a rooftop one night does not make him anything other than what he is.

She is too tired and too busy for a boyfriend. She is too smart to get involved with a felon, even one who makes good soup. She is too fragile to get caught up in a romance that is so clearly, absolutely, completely doomed from day one.

She thinks about it almost daily. It annoys the hell out of her.

* * *

One day at the end of summer, a gallery in Soho gets knocked over. It's splashed on the front page of the newspaper, top story on the evening news, and Sterling Bosch is their insurance provider.

It's inevitable, she supposes, and doesn't have to look at her caller ID to know that it's Peter on the other end of the line when her phone rings that afternoon.

* * *

Part of the sting is going to require copies of some of the stolen work. Neal graciously volunteers his services, and she rolls her eyes so far back in her head she might sprain something as Peter okays it.

Neal proceeds to disappear for days with all her files on the specific works. She itches to have her folders back in her hands. When she takes meetings with Peter, she half sits on them and bites back requests on his progress.

But because Peter seems to have a sixth sense where Neal is concerned, he gives Sara Neal's home address at the end of the third day, just in case she wants to check his progress and verify that his copies are accurate. She almost hugs him out of pure relief.

(This is where she should have been paying attention. This is where Peter knew what would happen all along.)

* * *

She goes to his apartment, if one could even call it that, that night. Neal answers the door shirtless, pants slung low around his slim hips, a paint rag in one hand, forearms flecked with pigment, and slight surprise on his face.

He grudgingly lets her in after she invokes Peter's name, and as her heels click on his hardwood floors, she curses him over and over in her head: No shirt. _Of course_ he wasn't wearing a shirt. Fucking abs you could do laundry on and smelling of the bitter tang of oil paint, hair so perfectly in place you could take pictures of him for a shampoo advertisement: just a blindingly pretty piece of art on display.

She's fifty percent convinced at this point that Peter warned him of her arrival and the whole scene is set up just to coerce a reaction from her, as if that would prove that she's just like every other woman he's wrapped around his little finger, so she is unnecessarily brusque at first. She looks around trying to get her bearings, and sees an easel set up in front of the windows for natural light.

She surveys the progress on the work; meanwhile he's pulled a t-shirt from somewhere and is shrugging it on. She watches his muscles stretch and flex out of the corner of her eye. The t-shirt is not much better, given that it is careworn and is tight enough to be a second skin, but at least he thankfully seems to realize that half naked wasn't the way to have this conversation.

She refocuses on the painting, doubly intent now. "The other two pieces of the triptych?" she asks, not removing her eyes from the canvas.

"Left side is done, right side's coming up next," he says shortly, coming up behind her to survey his own work.

The light browns of the background gleam slightly like burnt umber in the orange light of the sunset coming in from the windows. She almost prefers it to the accurate color of the painting, which she always thought was perfectly hideous. The figure in the center of the panel is slowly taking shape, the dark blotch of chest, the outline of crossed legs.

"It's good," she says finally, honest for once, no hint of petulance or begrudging him his due. It really is, she marvels, especially given that it's a bit out of his personal wheelhouse in terms of period and style. She keeps looking at it, because it is an impossible thing, and because it distracts her from the warm body behind her who clearly doesn't know what to make of her visit yet.

"Praise from Caesar is praise indeed. Not my finest work, but alas…"

"It was never your style," she concedes with a toss of her hair. "It is absolutely depressing, isn't it? And yet still manages to be as dull as dishwater."

He laughs, genuinely, and she feels her own lips curling into a small, victorious smile. "Yes, at least those renaissance cruxification scenes take the time to be _interesting_."

"Hell, Neal, you used to make them fucking _romantic_." He grins at that, mouths _allegedly_, and she grins back, though she really shouldn't. That's all he needs: a little encouragement, that little bit of license, and he'll start reorganizing boundaries any minute now and she'll find out later that she allowed him to annex Poland, or at the very least, steal another multi-million dollar painting out from under her nose.

"Wine? I have a pinot noir that's breathing…"

"Sure," she says, moving to the other end of the room, where the left panel of the triptych is leaning up against a bookcase.

When he returns to her side, she accepts the wine glass graciously, and makes a few comments on the tincture of the background of the other panel.

"Varnish will take care of it. I've got … a friend hunting down some authentic stuff from the eighties, just in case they test. Should have it by tomorrow."

"You are thorough, aren't you? And so _clever_." She can't help the contempt in her voice. It's bad enough that he paints a perfect copy; he has to replicate _everything_, every detail and all the little minutia that make this piece of art what it is, from when it is, from who it is, all reduced down to a methodological, replicable science. A science that grants five to ten years in federal prison.

"Well, as Michael Boone said, what's the point of getting old without getting cunning?"

"I bet you have that on a coat of arms somewhere."

"Oh, of course. Have a neat little replica on a stamp. I seal letters with it," he said casually, talking nonsense though his muscles went tense, swirling the wine in his glass. "Very elegant, classy – you'd like it."

"You'll have to write me a letter sometime, then. My preference is a confession-"

"_Of course_."

"-but I'll take what I can get." Her lips curve mischieviously over the rim of her glass, and she doesn't take her eyes off his as she sips at her wine. He stares back, and she notices for the first time that evening the exhaustion and resignation in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says shortly and begins to peruse his bookcase just to have something to look at other than the ugly painting and him.

"You're sorry. Yeah, sure. Why bother, Sara? We both are well aware what you think of me," comes his voice from behind her, filled with a weary disdain that is just awful to hear.

"Because whether I like it, and I don't, you're playing on my team right now, and helping by doing a job, and I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have said anything. So …" she waves her arm in front of her in a vague motion; _take it or leave it_, she thinks, _an apology will not be forthcoming next time_.

"It's a damn good forgery," she reiterates, just to have something to say that isn't an insult.

"Yes, it will be," he agrees, taking a considerable swallow from his glass. He smoothes the back of his hair with his other hand, and watches her as her eyes move over his shelves, the light picking up copper tones in her hair.

It's very quiet and the room keeps getting smaller.

She senses his eyes on her, and ventures a glance in his direction. "Have you, uh, have you eaten… ?"

A resounding growl from the vicinity of his stomach answers for him, and they share a forced chuckle. "I guess not."

"Do you want to…? I mean, you don't have to, I could go out and get something and bring it back for you, if you'd like." She is as hesitant as a teenage virgin and she hates how weak her voice sounds. This is not her; she has always been stronger, and better, and smarter than this and _damn him_ for making her feel so stupid and silly and girly.

"I'm not exactly dressed for it," he says with a gesture towards his casual attire.

"Not up to your usual standards, no. But do you need a three-piece suit just to eat a meal? I'm sure there's someplace in your 2-mile radius that will serve you, especially if you play your cards right and smile prettily at the hostess."

"I really should keep working."

"Okay. Thanks for the drink," she says, setting her wine glass down on a nearby table and hiking her purse higher on her shoulder.

She leaves quickly after that, angry as usual, but not sure who's she's more annoyed with: Caffrey or herself. She finds a nearby Asian restaurant on her way to the subway and places an order to be delivered to Caffrey's place. She pays for it with her Sterling Bosch credit card; he is currently acting in their interest, and keeping their forger from passing out from hunger on the work that will seal the deal counts as a business expense.

* * *

The gambit works, and the criminals are brought in by Peter's team. She stands in the abandoned loft where the take-down occurred, looking down at the real paintings being boxed up by the swarming FBI agents, and feels slightly sick to her stomach.

"Well, you've just had a very good day," Neal says, sidling up next to her, hands in his pockets, looking very satisfied with himself.

"Hmm," she nods in agreement, knowing that her commission will be considerable but not caring enough to gleefully rub it in his face. Not over such ugly things, anyway. Besides, he did all the real work.

He bends down a bit and cranes his neck over and up, hands still in his pockets, to better see her face. "If I didn't know better, Sara, I'd say that you're not too happy."

She closes her eyes briefly, and turns to him. "The chase is fun. The chase is over. Now it's just paperwork." She pitches her voice to direct the men about where the paintings are to be sent, and reminds them again in rather scathing tones to be careful.

She turns to leave, and Neal puts a hand on her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "Sara." He removes his hand fast like he's been burned. "It was … nice to work with you again." His eyes glow an intense blue as he shrugs at his words. "I mean it. And I never thanked you for the Pad Thai."

She smiles weakly, and says he can thank Sterling Bosch, and she'll be in touch.

* * *

It takes longer than she expects, and it's not exactly by-the-book procedure-wise, but as stupid as it is as a peace offering, she's determined to go through with it.

One evening she shows up again on Neal's doorstep with a large package wrapped in brown butcher's paper.

He opens the door (dress shirt, tie, vest, slacks – must have been working late in the office) and looks dazed at the sight of her.

"Sara. This is unexpected."

"Yep. I have a present for you," she says by way of greeting, beginning to haul the package into his rooms.

"What the hell?" he says, helping her maneuver it into his sitting area.

"Open it."

He shoots her a suspicious look mingled with humor, and begins to tear the paper off the package, revealing his forged triptych. That earns her one of his rare genuine laughs.

"You shouldn't have."

"I really shouldn't have," she agrees wholeheartedly. "These things are supposed to be burned."

"Then …why?"

"Because I thought your place could use some fantastically ugly artwork? Though," she says looking around her dramatically, "I really don't know where you'd hang them. Wall space appears to be a precious commodity."

A smile is dancing on his lips, but his eyes are serious. He knows she hasn't answered his question, and he's waiting.

She drops the flippant tone. "It was something Peter said. He's worried about you, you know."

Neal places a hand on his chest in the international "moi?" gesture and raises an eyebrow. "News to me."

"And you're supposed to be perceptive."

"What exactly did he tell you?"

"About your… about Kate. I thought you might need a reminder about what happens when you meditate on death for too long." She takes a deep breath, focuses on the paintings so that she doesn't have to look at him and speaks in a quiet voice. "It warps you. It makes beautiful things repulsive. And it would be a shame… it would be a shame."

"I don't know what to say," he says, his brow furrowing with thought, looking from the large canvases propped up by his sofa and the woman standing opposite them.

"Offer me a drink and we'll go from there."

They chat pleasantly enough over a bottle of Bordeaux, and then there's a chipper three knocks on the door, and a scritch of a key, and in walks a strange looking bald man carrying a laptop.

Neal stands up from the table like his pants have caught fire. "Now's not a good time, buddy…"

The man just stands there frozen for a moment, and pushes up his glasses, looking from Neal to Sara then back to Neal. And then he smiles, and with a look Sara couldn't interpret to Neal, he holds out a hand to her.

"You must be Sara Ellis."

"Yes," she says, eyes narrowing. "I take it you're an… off-the-book associate of Neal's?"

He smirks at that.

"Well, _Vincenzo_, can I offer you a glass of Neal's wine? It's very good," she says with a smile, raising the bottle. She is off the clock, _she is having a life (sort of, maybe)_, and the odd little man can be one of the most wanted criminal masterminds in the world: tonight, for once, she doesn't care.

He chuckles, and shoving the laptop in his satchel, proceeds to sit down at the table opposite her. "It would be remiss of me to abstain. Vincenzo, I like it. I suppose that makes Neal…"

"Eduardo de Valfierno. But I did not steal the _Mona Lisa_," Neal says, giving up and getting an extra glass from the cabinet.

"This is true, though not through lack of talent," "Vincenzo" says. "So Sara Ellis, suit two times removed, do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"He will whether you want him to or not," Neal sighs, setting an empty glass in front of his friend.

"Shoot," she says, generously pouring wine into his glass.

"First off," he says raising one index finger, "why are you here?"

"I brought Neal a present to cheer him up."

"I'm plenty cheery!" Neal said, holding up a hand to his chest in defense.

Sara and "Vincenzo" share mutual disbelieving looks. "He needs a good distraction," "Vincenzo" says looking at Sara appraisingly.

"I take it your present is the triptych over there?" he continues.

"Yes. Nice work on the varnish, by the way."

"Why, thank … I have _no_ idea to what you are referring."

"Of course not, _Vincenzo_. But if you _did_, I bet you would be proud of how well it turned out, in the end."

"I just might." They toast to one another while Neal looks on, clearly bewildered at the progress of the evening.

* * *

The evening stretches out, and Sara and "Vincenzo" are still talking at Neal's table. Matters have descended into the classic art theft debate, and despite a shared sense of discomfort with the topic given their chosen professions, they all are becoming rather passionate disputants.

"So what, suddenly you're Robin Hood because it's such a victimless crime?" Sara's voice rises sharply.

"Well, it's a bit more self-serving than that. Though one could say that we are the deserving poor, in this scenario, anyway," Neal says thoughtfully, "Vincenzo" chiming in with a comment about different revenue streams for those who choose alternative lifestyles.

"Anyway, what would _a suit_ know about it? The status quo is the problem of other people: we remake the world to fit our own, better, ideas. Wouldn't anyone if they were as smart as-"

"You?" Sara says with a smirk.

"A genius of my proportions, yes. Which you are not. It's about freedom, and imagination, and expression and appreciation of, of the delicacies of life far beyond _your_ narrow, bland world view," "Vincenzo" says, getting heated now.

"Oh _right, _you steal things to find _enlightenment_. Thank _you_, Zen Master Vincenzo. How could I have been so silly, to think that _the money_ had something to do with it? Like _pay for_ the delicacies of life. Why else would you take the risks if it didn't pay off?"

"The cheap thrill," Neal interjects, a cocky smile on his face.

"You would," she says with a glare and takes a hearty swig from her wine glass. "And besides, victimless _my ass_. It's stealing _history_."

"Cheesy excuse," "Vincenzo" critiques.

Neal nods his head in agreement. "Very schmaltzy."

Sara knows she's drunk because she can't stop the torrent of words coming out of her mouth. "What would you two know about it anyway? You swindle, and you scheme, and you enjoy the hell out of putting one over on, on _the Man_, or whoever, because it sure ain't boring, and won't that just stick it to them all?

"You take a painting from a museum, let's say, and you replace it with one of your impeccable forgeries, and then what? As you say, no weeping widows, no children made orphans, _victimless_. The rest of the world, the ignoramuses who come into the gallery or whatever and don't notice, or who appreciate it and pay for as much as the real deal, well, what they don't know can't hurt them, right? _Bullshit_. Or to quote your Michael Boone," she says with a pointed look at Neal, "how do you know how much to pay if you don't know what it's worth?"

"Vincenzo" is drawing circles on the table from spilled wine with an index finger, looking thoroughly chastised and slightly pissed about it. Neal takes a drink that's very audible in the hush that's fallen over the room.

"Well. I just killed the evening, didn't I?" Sara says ruefully, running a hand through her hair.

"Yeah, you kinda did," Neal says quietly. "I told you this was a bad topic of conversation," he reiterates, nudging "Vincenzo."

"Yeah, yeah. I call it a draw. Besides, 'a person who never made a mistake never tried anything new.' "

"Einstein," Neal says to Sara by way of explanation.

"Is that the same as letting bygones be bygones?"

"Close enough."

"I should go," she rises, slightly unsteady on her feet, and Neal's hand reaches out to her waist to steady her. His hand is very warm, and lingers just a second longer than necessary.

She sticks out her hand again. "It was very nice meeting you, Vincenzo. I hope our paths never cross professionally, because you seem like an okay guy, if a bit … eccentric."

Instead of shaking her hand, "Vincenzo" turns it and places a kiss on the top of her hand. "Likewise. We should do this again sometime… without the yelling, though."

A goofy smile appears on her face, and she can't help it. "Without the yelling, absolutely."

"I should not have called you a suit."

"I should not have implied that you lacked integrity."

"Well then," he says with a smile, pushing his glasses up his nose and raising his mostly empty glass in a faux toast. "You are welcome to drink Neal's wine with me anytime."

Neal walks her to the door, and she finds herself hyper-aware of his hand at the small of her back. He leans close to her right ear, and says in a low voice, "I think you made a friend."

She giggles, and quickly raises a hand to muffle the noise. He just grins down at her, and she knows that she must look ridiculous. He knows she's drunk. Hell, blind people could nose that fact, she thinks sourly.

He starts to offer to drive her home, and she turns abruptly, not realizing how close he was. She stumbles a bit, and he steadies her again. "With what?" she asks a bit breathlessly.

"June has a car," he states with a careless shrug, both of his hands still on her waist, heavy, solid and reassuring.

"No, thanks, but I think I'll just take a cab."

"Okay. Thank you for my present." His eyes are warm and even though she thought she was past that sort of thing, she could feel her cheeks suffuse with blushing.

"You're welcome. I promise not to yell next time, but you gotta admit, you were pretty damn distracted, huh?"

The last thing she sees is his grin disappearing behind the door.

* * *

When she gets home, she drops her keys on the floor and with her back up against the closed door, laughs. And laughs, and laughs. Not a giggle, or a tinkling twitter, but a full throated laugh that makes her stomach ache, and she's bent over with the pain of it. She covers her face with her hands and can't stop, taking sharp breaths in between hiccupping whoops, forgetting momentarily how to breathe properly.

It had to happen sometime. She just really wished it wasn't _him_.

(Then again, isn't that how these things always go?)

* * *

It's not about the sex, because they've never had any despite her now recurring late-night fantasies; it's not about the intimacy, because neither of them can afford it in their respective positions.

But in the early hours of the morning a few days later, she begins to understand herself, and why her brain is so focused on this particular man. There was surface chemistry, sure; but the conversation clicked in a way that just didn't happen with other people. It was like they spoke to one another in their own language; one that Peter might not even completely understand.

It was a language of scraping with both bleeding hands for better things, and having an eye for quality, the real kind, the kind that's not just echoed for lack of having an honest opinion.

Peter might see a painting and know its value, maybe even like it on aesthetic grounds, accept that it was an artefact of bygone eras, but isn't that what most people see? A price tag, and a history, all neatly typed by Sothebys or Christie's or wherever, that tells them what the market says is valuable, and trendy, and important, and all that other crap that keeps the world turning and money flowing.

She knows she was wrong to accuse Neal of not understanding the integrity of it all, because he did. He always did. He wouldn't be as good a forger if he didn't. But for whatever his reasons, he had made himself a tidy little career in exploiting it.

If it wasn't for his career… and if it wasn't for hers, they never would have met. So in fairness, she can't hold it against him, really. She wonders if he still holds it against _her_.

* * *

At first, she declares the whole thing an aberration. It was late, there was wine, she was having a rough week: she very likely had had hallucinations of comraderie and the promise of something more in his looks, because to all sources, including Peter, he was still hung up on his ex-girlfriend.

Then because good sense is a commodity she doesn't seem to have a lot of these days, she tries to plot in her head how to create a fake run-in. She nixes all her ideas almost as soon as she starts because it would be an act of desperation, which is so beneath her, and besides, she thinks annoyed, she made the first fucking move. _His turn_.

Then things become so busy at work she actually does forget about Neal Caffrey for a time, having to go out of the country to do an assessment in Copenhagen.

The night she returns, as she's unpacking her suitcase, her phone rings.

"It's Vincenzo," the familiar voice on the other end of the line says.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you're able to track down an unlisted number. What can I do for you this evening?"

"Are you busy right now?"

She looks at her rumpled dirty clothes on the bedspread, then over to the window that's currently being pelted with rain. "Not particularly."

"Come over. To Neal's, that is. He's… I think he needs… there was a case … it didn't end well."

"How bad?" A lump forms in her throat. She hopes it's not Peter.

"A girl got shot and killed. Young, brunette. Girlfriend of the creep they took down."

"Shit. I'll be right over."

"Thanks. You know, I don't care what he says about you, you're aces in my book, Sara Ellis."

"_What he says_?" she asks, feeling her temper rise.

"Well, used to say, anyway. See you soon."

* * *

"Vincenzo" meets her at June's front door, holding it open as she shakes out her umbrella. "Where's Peter?" she asks him, concern writ across her face when she sees how tightly wound with anxiety the goofy sidekick is.

"At home. He had to be patched up, stray bullet grazed his arm. Ellie's with him."

"Okay," she breathed deeply through her nose and shrugs off her raincoat.

He leads the way, and with three knocks and a scritch, opens the door to Neal's rooms.

"I brought something to cheer you up," he announces.

Sara has to squint in the dark room, and spots Neal, standing in front of the large windows, his back to the rest of the room.

"Not now, Moz." His voice breaks slightly, quiet and rough.

"He should have said some_one_," she announces softly, and slowly begins to cross the room.

Neal whips around at that, shock on his face as he watches her come to a halt right in front of his table.

He shoots a glare at the other man. His look is a challenge and a question.

Moz shrugs, and looks him square in the eye. "If you developed better coping mechanisms, I wouldn't have to resort to radical measures. But as it stands… I'll just be going now."

They stand in silence, the rain pounding on the skylights becoming deafening, both watching the door close behind him. Sara shifts on her feet, thinking that coming over here was a really, really bad idea. "Why do I get the feeling that I've just been pimped out for the evening?"

He raises an eyebrow at that. "And yet you still came."

"He… Moz? Said it was bad. But Peter's okay?"

"Yeah, Peter's okay. He says he's had worse," Neal replies, rubbing his hands over his eyes. "I'm not really up for company tonight, Sara."

"No, you'd prefer to sulk, and throw a pity party for yourself instead. That I can see. Didn't Peter tell you it wasn't your fault?" she asks softly, leaning against the table.

"Right. It's never my fault," he said dispiritedly, sitting down on the couch.

"I'm sure there are some things that are your fault. My missing Raphael, for one. This girl's death, and Kate's, are not."

He winces and won't look at her, just stares straight ahead at the skylights in the alcove above his bed. "I can't…" he starts, but stops, his voice shaky. She realizes that his eyes are watery. "I can't do this. Not tonight."

"Okay. We won't talk about it. You play chess?" she asks, eyeing the chessboard on his bookcase. "Wanna play?"

"With you?"

"With me. Either that or I do the dance of the seven veils. Which I did not bring with me, because I was led here under false pretenses by your erstwhile procurer."

She pushes off from the table, crosses the room and picks up the set. "Come on, I'll even let you win… _maybe_."

So they play chess at the table, the pale blueish light of the early evening gradually getting deeper and deeper until the night and the storm get so dark that Neal is forced to turn on one small desk lamp so that the board remains visible. It isn't a shock to either of them that they are both skilled players.

Neither speaks a word.

* * *

Halfway through their third game (he's won once, and so has she, and this is the tie-breaker), she yawns.

"Long day?" he asks, breaking their silence first.

She nods, rolling each of her shoulders in turn, waiting for him to make his move. "Long day, long flight." She stretches her arms up like a cat, his eyes tracking the movement.

"Why did you come?" he asks so softly it takes her a moment to realize that he's asked her a question.

She exhales audibly at that and meets his eyes, impossibly dark in the low light of the room. She stands, takes a couple paces towards the windows, turns, stretches again, this time with her arms behind her back. "Don't know. Seemed like a good idea at the time."

He returns to contemplating the board, and she moves to look at the half-finished sculpture on a block tucked up against the wall. It's a woman seated on a rock, one hand clutching some kind of fabric to her breast and not doing a very good job of covering anything, a secret half smile on her lips. If it's a copy, she can't place it.

She reaches a curious index finger out and strokes the lady's foot where it meets the rock.

"That's not an answer."

"No? Well… maybe I just realized what the trouble was worth."

He's close behind her now, and how he managed that without a sound is beyond her, but she can feel the warmth of his body next to hers. A hot, wet touch on the back of her left shoulder jerks her into the present and suddenly she's not very tired anymore and seems to have misplaced all the air in her lungs.

A finger moves up and down the thin strap of her tank top, while her hair, kinked and curly from the rain earlier, is being slowly stroked and pulled aside over her other shoulder.

"Neal…" she says throatily, as his lips begin to trace a path with excruciating slowness over her shoulder and into the crook of her neck. "Are you sure about this?"

He pauses briefly in his task. "Moz, _your pimp_, thinks we have chemistry," he murmurs against her skin, lips curling with a glimmer of his old humor, a hand wrapping around her waist to pull her closer.

"Well, ye-es," she exhales breathily, unable to focus on much outside of the touch of his lips, the scent of his skin, and the weight of his hand on her stomach. "But you're emotionally fragile right now and…"

"_Estimez vous croitre encore mes peines_? I'd say it's about time, wouldn't you?"

"Oh _God_," she said, her head falling back.

Seizing the opportunity, with two fingers under her chin, he turns her face towards his slightly, and kisses her, softly at first, and then she lets out a little sigh of pleasure, and his mouth becomes more insistent against hers.

She turns in his arms, settling one hand in his hair and the other fisted in his shirt. For a few breathless moments, there is nothing but lips and tongues and teeth. Air finally becomes a priority, and when she pulls back slightly, he makes the grab, lifting her as if she were weightless and depositing her with a thump on the table behind them.

She opens her legs wide so that he can stand between them, her calves tightly hedging him in at either side of his waist.

"We must be crazy," she manages to say finally, hands frantically pulling up his t-shirt, desperate to feel skin on skin.

He helps her fling it off, before returning his hands to her body, cupping her breasts through the thin material of her tank top. Slowly, he drags his hand away, and she moans, missing the warmth of his touch, but they've only moved down to the ends of the shirt, the better to yank it up and off.

"Yes, but I've wanted you ever since you sent the Pad Thai," he says thickly, taking in the sight of her for a moment, eyes practically black with lust. "And I'm really not in the mood for a cold shower."

Her hair settles back down around her shoulders, and then his mouth is teasing hers again, his tongue parting her lips, pushing, sweeping, totally in control. He moves to tease the fluttering pulse in her neck, giving her the chance to suck in air in a dazed fashion.

"You really know how to flatter a girl, don't y-" she gasps as his wandering hands have managed to push down her slacks, and those clever fingers of his circle their way up, up, up her inner thigh.

There's a satisfied smirk on his face that she'd love to wipe off, or more practically at this juncture, lick off. Her pulse thrums in her ears, and she settles on sucking at his lower lip, feeling immensely satisfied when that produces a shivery groan from the back of his throat.

He's decided then, and seems pretty happy about it, if the bulge in his pants that she's cupped is anything to go by, and she's along for this ride. Regrets can wait until tomorrow and she's doesn't think she can manage coherent syllables any longer anyhow, as the knuckle of an index finger presses against her core.

Her slacks and panties are cast aside, and his trousers are falling off that perfectly shaped body she had once cursed six ways to Sunday by the time they stumble over to the alcove where his bed is.

She tumbles backwards onto the bed, and he looks and looks and looks at her, as if he would memorize every detail. She squirms slightly under the scrutiny, suddenly remembering that this is a man who has made beauty, in all of its forms, a priority in life.

But then silver quick, his pants and boxers are gone, and he's straddling over her and grabbing her face with both hands, kissing her like he's drowning, like they've called women and children to the lifeboats, and she just clings on for dear life, bucking up against him restlessly.

The sudden urgency is terrifyingly flattering, and she tempers her excitement by reminding herself that it's been awhile, for them both, and it's rather amazing it's lasted this long to begin with, the splintering tension becoming well nigh unbearable. The few seconds it takes to put on a condom has both of their fingers shaking in desperation.

The hot, slick slide of their bodies once he eases into her drives all coherent thoughts out of her head, and their rhythm rocks the small bed back and forth. When he comes, he says her name into her mouth, over and over, with a wild groan. His hand moves between them, stroking her, and it's the little push she needs over a very high cliff. She shatters around him with soft, mewling cries, fiercely digging her nails into the sculpted muscles of his back, her teeth scraping the base of his throat.

It's a small bed, so there's not much room left as they line their bodies up side by side, his arm heavy across her stomach, keeping her close.

The last thought she has before sleep overcomes her is a vague question as to why she waited this long to have sex with someone who looks like a male model and possesses impossibly dextrous fingers.

* * *

When she wakes up the next morning, it takes her a few moments to remember her surroundings. Direct in her line of vision, however, is a familiar sight.

She's still staring at it in wonder when there's a rustling behind her, and the scratch of morning stubble against her neck.

"Good morning."

"Hm, right back at ya," she smiles, reaching a hand up to tousle his hair. "You kept it," she says, nodding her head forward.

He looks up, eyes impossibly blue in the morning, and sees the center panel of the triptych where it's leaning up against the bookcase next to his full length mirror.

"I thought," she begins, needing to lick her lips which have suspiciously gone dry, "I thought that you would have repurposed those canvases or thrown them out…"

"I did, with the two other panels anyway," he says softly. "Couldn't…" he shakes his head, a silly half smile on his lips. "It's growing on me, I think."

"Hm. In what way?"

"He didn't like this own face anymore. Couldn't look directly at it, couldn't paint anyone else's because they were all…"

"Dead," she fills in softly.

"It's not my style, as you've noticed, but it's a good reminder about what lies at the end of the rabbit hole."

"A sea of taupe?"

Neal snorts. "Or to put it another way, about the cost you risk when paying more for things than they're worth. Which makes it an _exceptional _present," he says, lips against her neck, clearly no longer interested in discussing art anymore.

"It is so nice when one's gifts are appreciated."

* * *

They don't tell Moz, and they don't tell Peter. They don't talk of Kate, or of spring in D.C., or the stolen Raphael. They know that it's trouble, and a bad idea, and doomed to fail.

They have no regrets. It's worth it.

* * *

FIN.

* * *

Some more author's notes…

- Michael "Butcher" Boone is a (fictional) painter, and forger, from Peter's Carey's Theft, which is a pretty kick-ass book. The quotes attributed to him are part of his narration.

- Vincenzo Peruggia was part of the team that stole the _Mona Lisa_ from the Louvre in 1911, led by notorious conman/mastermind Eduardo de Valfierno. Peruggia was the museum worker who smuggled the painting out of the building under a shirt.

- The French Neal uses to seduce Sara is from a French poem by Louise Labe, "Long-Felt Desires":

Long-felt desires, hopes as long as vain –

Sad sighs – slow tears accustomed to run sad

Into as many rivers as two eyes can add,

Pouring like fountains, endless as the rain –

Cruelty beyond humanity, a pain

So hard it makes compassionate stars go mad

With pity: these are the first passions I've had.

**Do you think Love could root in my soul again?**

(bolded line would be what he whispered in French)

- And lastly, in case anyone's wondering, the piece Neal forged is Francis Bacon's "Study for a Self-Portrait – Triptych, 1985-86." (I agree with Sara, or Sara agrees with me rather, that it is monstrously ugly. But it is real, and famous, and valuable, and predominantly about death, so it worked for fictional purposes.)

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